


glow

by kinpika



Series: lyrium high [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: And then it got kind of sad, F/M, Massage, zevwarden week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: ZevWarden Week 2017Day One Prompt: Massage“Trust me.”





	glow

“You’ve been practicing,” is only the second remark that Zevran had given that night, since they had first entered the tavern. Granted, they had been remarkably covered in all manner of blood, mud and sweat, not even the rains being able to remove the worst of it from their skin.

All of them (and Zevran truly meant _all_ of them), had ended up in what constituted as the bathing area, stripped down to whatever the last means of clean clothing was. Whatever Basilia had paid the owner to keep the comments to a minimum, the fires in the kitchens going and given them all proper beds for the first time in a month. For his part, Zevran had assisted with the masses of hair Basilia owned, weaving it down her back, comb in hand, as she had scrubbed at one particular undershirt of his that may never see the light of day again.

And now, here they were, barely on the edge of alertness. Seated quite comfortably on his ass, Basilia ran her hands over Zevran’s back, heel of her palms just barely digging in, accompanied by that fancy magic of hers. She hums as she works, a light tune from a place Zevran doesn’t recognise. Perhaps, he would place that particular song from somewhere out of the Free Marches, if he were feeling like taking a stab in the dark. They were still light to share details of that nature, and Zevran hadn’t quite determined for whose sake that truly was. But he gathered enough to determine a place of birth, a rough age, and just how many freckles dotted the bridge of her nose.

Finally she speaks, fingers stilling low on his back. Zevran feels the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile threatening to break, when she continues a slow yet recognisable movement. _Tracing_. “These markings are lovely. I overhead you talking to Alistair about them earlier. What did you call them again?”

“ _Tattoos_. This can hardly be the first time you have seen them, dear Warden.”

Laughter spills from above his right shoulder, and he can see out the corner of his eye hair that had managed to escape her braid. She was leaning over him, perhaps trying to see the one tattoo that stretched over his shoulder. “I find myself preoccupied with other matters… whenever I find you in my bed.”

As Basilia’s weight shifts, she had returned to her slow and steady pressure. Shoulders now, not quite enough behind her efforts to really offer a change, and Zevran had half a mind to think she was afraid of hurting him — yet that was a ridiculous notion, as she could take him apart with a snap of her fingers. “I don’t blame you. Whenever I find you in mine, I can think of nothing else.”

There’s a little slap against his arm, and Zevran laughs loudly at the “flatterer” that leaves her. Whilst he can’t see her face, he was sure her cheeks had flushed in a moderate amount of embarrassment. 

“I cannot lie! Truly, especially when you bare your shoulders — so scandalous! — and the way you enjoy your legs raised!”

“Zevran!” Sheer unrestrained laughter fills the air, and it’s his turn to just simply grin when she shakes from trying to keep the noise down. Whatever pinch of embarrassment had filled her was gone, and she’s digging her fingers into his sides, eliciting a reaction that sends her into another fit of laughter.

“Enough of that,” he finds himself mumbling, making a move to lay on his back. How quickly this had been turned on him. Basilia wisely tucked her feet out of harm’s way, but raised herself nonetheless, giving Zevran room. When he flops back, head on the pillows, only does she settle herself on the tops of his thighs, and gives a lazy sort of grin, sprinkled with exhaustion around the eyes.  

So he says: “You should sleep.”

“Soon. Let me finish.” Fingers splay over his chest, stretched over the tattoos that cover his skin. Basilia doesn’t ask the questions that he was sure she wanted to. Simply closes her eyes, and lets warmth spreads from the tips of her fingers, running rivets over his skin. Concentrating on her, Zevran notes the almost serene sort of look she takes on, and how the magic spreads like he was almost being—

 _Hugged_. A comfort he hadn’t felt in so long. Smothering him. 

Yet the magic dawns closer to his shoulders, and just as Zevran reaches for her, to get her to stop, it ceases. Slips back down faster than it had spread over his skin, cool air settling on him so quick he releases a puff of air he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Basilia—”

“You’re injured.” Eyes unusually hard. Injuries were easy come, easy go, especially these days. There was talk, that it was going to be the end, before the next year managed to break. Patrols from all sides were getting more and more noticeable, as all the nobles gathered in Denerim. It was not the first time Zevran had received something this bad, anyway.

Besides, Wynne had patched him up quickly, before anyone should notice. Not quite the depth of healing he was used to, but it meant he could still use his right hand, and there was no visible scar. 

Zevran looks off to the side, however, as he speaks. “It’s hardly an issue—”

Basilia tries to angle him, perhaps to get a greater look at the area. Nothing on the skin would show, it was all bone deep, anyway. “Was that from the morning? When you jumped in the way of that—”

He has to cut her off. (And a voice in the back of his head says he should leave, that he was getting in too deep) “Do not worry yourself over what happened.”

“I _do_ worry when you continually throw yourself in the way, Zevran.” Each word is strained, emphasis, emotion, but it’s the ‘I do’ that has him floored. Not in a particularly comforting way, either, a narrowness of the room, uncertainty of himself.

Zevran makes a move, then. An attempt to flip them, and he partway succeeds, due to how she had situated herself. Whilst he doesn’t manage to get her completely under him, he keeps her hands away from his skin, and begs his face to not give away how the twist hurt him. No bruising, no scar, he was fine.

“Please, don’t worry about me. You should be more concerned about yourself.”

His grip was weak, and Zevran doesn’t know what overcomes him, when he doesn’t fight back. Watches, as Basilia flicks her wrist, wrangling herself free, only to hold his hand, fingers intertwining so easily, like they had been lovers for years. That warmth returns, again, a different kind of shiver running down his arm, aimed no doubt towards his shoulder. 

A protest sits on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t deny the relief, like a tension had been drawn out from him. Zevran thinks of how easy it would be, to stop the situation, to end either one of them — or both. Thinks of how the way they joined, tangled mess of limbs on a bed, was probably the safest he had felt in a long time. He thinks of the shirt she wears and nothing else, exposing her for an attack, and how her perfumes cover every possession he has, and how he doesn’t mind.

Zevran lets his head fall, forehead resting on hers. His thoughts are muddled, only when he doesn’t let himself focus on a single thing, like a battle, that captures him. There’s a certain kind of fear in him, pulling him every which way. Familiar territory was long gone. All he needed to do was—

“Relax, Zevran,” she whispers, free arm wrapping around him. Holding him, as her mouth finds his. “Trust me.”

 _I do_ , he thinks, and for one whole moment, Zevran’s not afraid of that sentence.

**Author's Note:**

> shrugs,  
> i'm late but oh well


End file.
